


like a phoenix

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Crying, Fluff, M/M, Other, but its happy i swear he just gets nervous sorta!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 09:56:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13715247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: It’s February 3rd, 2013. And maybe Pete thinks it’s better to call it all off. Patrick might be the only one that can hold him down.





	like a phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of what Pete said in some interview, about how he and Patrick were stuck in some hotel the night before the release of Light Em Up. He said that he was so anxious that he almost cancelled everything, and Patrick had to try to calm him down, which I thought was adorable.
> 
> Title’s from the Phoenix. Fall Out Boy’s been reborn.
> 
> And yeah, this is probably definitely an exaggeration but it was fun to write, so enjoy!

My nerves ride high, and Patrick can tell.

We are sitting on the balcony of some five story hotel room in the middle of Chicago. The cold, sharp Illinois air does little to calm me down.

“You know.” I say weakly, glancing over at Patrick. “You know, It’d be okay if we, like, just didn’t release it. It would be fine. I would be okay with it. Wouldn’t mind.”

He shakes his head. He isn’t looking at me, just out at the Chicago skyline. 

“It’s a good song.” he murmurs. “Deserves to see the light, I think.”

“You aren’t scared?”

He laughs. “Terrified.”

I sigh. It is Thursday night. Tomorrow at 7am Central time, My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark, first single after the hiatus by American rock band Fall Out Boy, will be released. 

“Patrick, everything we’ve ever done rides on how good people think this song is.”

“That’s the thrill of it, I guess. Hey, your hands are shaking.” he looks concerned. 

I look down at my open palms; he is right. I press them feverishly against my lap but it does little to stop them from trembling.

“I need a Xanax.” I mutter. “Fuck.”

“Shh, I can get it for you.” he murmurs, then in a moment returns with the long white pill and a glass of water. I thank him, feeling my heartbeat increase with each second. Quickly, I swallow the pill.

It works nearly instantly. My head feels like it’s swimming in syrup or something, which is nice, but my body still feels jittery. Like I’m disconnected.

I don’t like thinking about it though, thinking about how that little pill is changing me on a molecular level. Changing who I am. 

I tell Patrick this, about how the pills change the person you are. He’s thinking for a second.

“I don’t—I don’t think so.” he murmurs. “I think it changes the bad parts, fixes what’s not working.”

“But what if I am the bad parts?”

“You aren’t.” he yawns. “It’s late—bedtime?”

“Yeah. Wait! I’m not four.” I chuckle. “‘bedtime.’”

He laughs, and it sounds like gold. I smile. 

“Really, though, we have a show tomorrow, too.” he says, standing up. I follow.

We’re laying in opposite beds, and I’m listening to the sounds of my pulse through the pillow. It reminds me of the old days, when we’d go in tour and the only thing that could keep me sane was the sound of my pulse, reminding me that I am, in fact, still alive.

I can’t sleep—well, I can never really sleep—but especially not tonight. My mind flashes everything that could go wrong, and I watch my career as it plummets down an endless cliff, through clouds of gold thread. I’m terrified now, feeding the spiral. Even the Xanax can’t help this. 

Patrick can tell I’m freaking out, so he sits up.

“Pete, It’s okay.” he whispers. 

I shake my head. “It isn’t.” I choke. Funny, I guess I’m crying now.

Sighing, he rolls out of his bed and sits in mine, pressing up against me. He’s solid and real and here.

I feel hot tears roll down my cheeks, and I can’t do anything. I just have to let it pass; Patrick knows this, too.

“Shh, it’s alright.”

But it’s not alright. Everything is wrong—why is everything wrong? I’m panicking now; my hands turn to static and my eyelids flash acid green. 

Everything is changing, everything is off, and it will never go back to how it was. 

“Breathe! Jesus, Pete, listen to me. It’s okay.” Patrick doesn’t know what to do now, he just holds my hand and waits.

The panic ebbs away slowly, in waves that get smaller and smaller until I reach the shore. 

Finally, I let out a shaky breath and rest my head on the cushioned wall. Patrick rubs my hand.

“You okay?” he asks softly. I nod, embarrassed. I don’t like being seen like this by my friends.

Slowly, I get up, testing my legs in case they’re still shaking. They are, but I can walk, so I make my way to the sink. I stare at myself in the dark, leaning on the counter for support and feeling Patrick’s sad gaze burning into my back. My face it lit by the soft glow of the hallway under the door; I look dead. I look like a ghost.

I splash cold water in my face, hoping it will snap me out of it, whatever it is. It doesn’t, it only makes me cold and wet and uncomfortable. 

Another tear tracks down my cheek but it blends with the sink water. The knot tightens in my stomach and I turn, miserable.

“We can’t do it.” I croak, drying my face with my sleeve. “We can’t. I’m—I’m calling the label.”

“Pete, it’s too late anyways.” Patrick murmurs. “And, you don’t want that.”

“I don’t fucking want this.” it comes out more like a sob that I expected. “I’m like, self-imploding.”

“I know.” he says quietly. “Come here. We can watch TV or something, yeah?” 

I nod numbly, and slide in next to him, melting into his side. He’s so warm. Comforting.

He turns on the cooking channel and gets me to talk about the flavor of seared ahi versus grilled tuna. He’s doing his best to distract me.

After a while I’m aware he’s asleep next to me, and now I’m by myself thinking about how good a raspberry cheesecake would be right now, or that maple ice cream coated in pralines. I hate the cooking channel.

—

Morning comes sooner than I expect, and then the manager is calling us to meet at the venue and suddenly I’m thrown back into the old days, when it was the four of us against the world and I’m thinking we might have another shot.

“Pete? Yeah. We’re meeting at the venue at three. Sound check. Yep.” then he hangs up and I tell Patrick, who only groans and buries himself deeper into the blankets. 

It’s 12 now. We’ve got a couple hours.

And then it hits me, like a wave or a bus or something, that the hiatus is over. The song is out. That is it.

I shake Patrick awake, telling him that it’s out. Patrick sits up. 

“Don’t go online.” he murmurs. “Don’t do it, Pete.”

I tell him I won’t, that I’m not that stupid.

That’s a lie, I definitely was planning to, but it’s okay.

We meet up with Joe and Andy for lunch at some sandwich place; it’s on a tucked away street somewhere so nobody is really here. 

Andy is happy—I haven’t seen him this happy in years. I grin at him, talking up the waitress, bouncing in his seat, but I kind of feel bad. He’s happy because we’re a band again, and I could’ve taken that away.

“Why d’you look so sad?” Joe asked me. I look up, surprised.

“I do?”

“I mean, sadder than usual. Did you sleep?”

I glance at Patrick and Andy; they’re talking about some movie they saw, not paying attention to us. 

“Joe, I never sleep.” I murmur. 

“Our song’s out. The world wide web is, like, imploding in itself, because of us.” he grins. “Isn’t that cool?”

“Yeah.” I reply, stirring at my iced tea or whatever the hell I got. 

“You don’t sound excited.” he tells me. I shrug.

“Tired, is all.” I say, dropping my eyelids just enough; I know the tricks. 

He nods, falling for it. Or maybe he just wants to fall for it.

“Well, wake up!” he grins. “We’ve got a Fall Out Boy show to play.”

—

We get to sound check at four. The manager is furious but we don’t really care.

We run through the set; it’s only twelve songs, and only three are new. It sounds good, good enough for us at soundcheck anyway, so we call it quits and head backstage to the dressing rooms.

Patrick is put on vocal rest—which our manager angrily reminded us he should’ve been since yesterday—and practically locked us back there until seven. 

I can hear the venue come alive, buzzing with the voices of thousands of people, and now the butterflies are gone, and birds replace them. I feel sick.

But I’m excited, too, because I’ve forgotten how much I missed stepping onto that stage. I’ve forgotten how much I belong in the spotlight. 

I pull out my phone, swiping to twitter, surprised to see the name of my band on the top news story, then the number one trending. I had kept my hopes low. 

“Patrick, look!” I call. He stops pacing and makes his way to the couch. “We’re trending.” 

He smiles tightly, flashes a quick thumbs up, and goes back to pacing. He looks nervous, more nervous than I am right now. 

“You okay?” I ask. He nods but hardly looks my way. 

He’s running over the lyrics in his head, mouthing the words and air-guitar-ing the chords. I watch him for a while; he’s fascinating, the way he lives and breathes music. 

The Joe and Andy crash the room, with bags of chips and soda and we settle into a comfortable silence.

Andy is so happy. I tell him that, how happy he looks, and he only laughs. I smile back.

The sound of the roaring crowd on the other side of the stage tells me that the warm up bands are out. It’s our turn soon. 

It’s out turn soon.

For the first time in three years, we’re going to play a show. 

—

The road of the crowd. Patrick’s voice, singing our songs we wrote together. Some of the best sounds in the world.

It all comes together when I step into the stage, shaky hands and all. 

My heart is racing but in the best way possible as I stare out at the crowd; they’re chanting our names. This is where I belong; where I’ve always belonged. 

And then the song starts. They’re singing with Patrick, just as loud, and the arena echoes with words I wrote when I was seventeen, twenty. Depressed. Manic. They’re singing my life. 

Keep playing. Keep strumming. The base echoes in my head.

Focus.

I’m bouncing around the stage now, like I’m not even here. I’m everywhere but here, my head in the clouds. The rush of being onstage—I’m an adrenaline junkie. 

I might be crying but I can’t stop to check, it’s just the road of the crowd and patrick’s voice ringing in my ears like some sort of trance. 

And then it ends, after our encore and the crowd screaming our name and the thrill of it all. 

I hold myself together until we’re alone in the dressing rooms, then I lose it. 

That’s it. We’re back. The hiatus is over, and struggles are over, at least for now, and somehow, it gets to me. I’m back with my boys, with the people who I’d missed more than anyone. The brothers are back together. 

“Pete?” Patrick is standing over me—he looks blurry. Or maybe that’s just the tears. “Are you okay?”

I nod. I can’t speak.

He slides down next to me, sitting on the floor and leaning up against the wall, close enough that I can feel his heartbeat. He’s crying too, but he’s also smiling, and looking up at the ceiling and saying to me that he doesn’t believe it. That we’re back. Officially.

I am only thinking that I was always meant to be by his side. The four of us are meant to be next to each other in this life and all the lives that come after. It locked us in together and swallowed the key. Got a sentence of a lifetime. 

Set the sails—draw them up and drop the anchor in the middle of a storm. We’re in for the long run.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks 4 reading, please leave a comment if u can!
> 
> Oh and I’m way too fucken lazy to put in italics but whataver hahah anyways thanks yeah
> 
> -s


End file.
